


Caring

by dormiensa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, His Last Vow, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Possessive Sherlock, Protective Mycroft, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2158758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/pseuds/dormiensa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two brothers.  Two quiet moments.  Two points of crisis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_~ Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. ~_

 

After they rounded the corner, Sherlock shook hands with each member of his homeless network and saw them off before climbing into the waiting vehicle.

 

He raised a sardonic eyebrow when they arrived at the newest safehouse/office.  Andrea grinned and indicated that he should go in.

 

The layout was typical of such locations wherein Mycroft could continue to play his war games in the midst of an apocalypse.  Sherlock had to reluctantly admire the audacity of this choice. 

 

He followed the scent of Earl Grey toward the back room—a bit surprised that his brother was above-ground—but he couldn’t resist pausing before the one-way windows and seeing the achingly familiar black door with the golden _221B_ on it.

 

Mycroft was standing by the rear window, his back half-turned away from him.  Sherlock made his way over to come face-to-face… and his caustic remark died on his lips at Mycroft’s expression.

 

“Spare me your ridicule, brother dear.  I _know_ it is foolish of me to react in such a manner, knowing the truth as I do.  But seeing your—that bloodied corpse on the sidewalk—I have nightm—”  He turned away abruptly, heading toward the pair of armchairs.  Standing over the tray atop the small table in-between, he asked, coolly, “Tea?”

 

“Please.”  Sherlock sat and accepted the proffered cup.  He stared at Mycroft until his brother reluctantly returned his gaze.  _Caring is not an advantage_.

 

Mycroft sighed.  _I know.  The frailties of the human body, I’m afraid._

 

_If John could see you now.  He’s convinced you’re a heartless—_

 

Mycroft gave a small smile at Sherlock’s wince of pain.  “‘The heart is an organ of fire.’”

 

Sherlock snorted.  “Spare me your bestseller references.”

 

“You _did_ expand your reading list for that case, then.”  _As I’d suggested._

 

“There’s a phenomenon called The Internet, brother mine.  Surely, a member of MI-6 would be aware of it.”  _But perhaps your minions have failed to inform you in order to remain useful_.

 

“I prefer my intel to be thorough and to come from reliable sources.”  _Although I make an exception for John’s blog._

 

Sherlock huffed and looked away. 

 

They finished their tea in complete silence.  Then they went below stairs to read the incoming reports of the aftermath of the staged suicide and to fine-tune the details of their plan.

 

The next two days were spent in similar fashion.  But Sherlock noticed that, alert and focussed though he was, his brother had no biting remarks to make, even when given the opportunities. 

 

On his final night at the safehouse, Sherlock dreamed of being back in his room that first Christmas Mycroft had gone away to school and come home withdrawn and weary.  Despite not being affectionate by nature, he nonetheless used to pat Sherlock on the shoulder or ruffle his curls.  But that Christmas, Mycroft hid himself in his room, only coming out for dinner and the mandatory unwrapping of gifts. 

 

And the night Sherlock pretended to be afraid of the monsters under his bed, he was denied entry into Mycroft’s room.  He’d sulked the rest of the hols until Mycroft left, and he’d refused to say goodbye.  Although Mycroft had tried to make amends during his subsequent visit home, the damage had been done.

 

Over the years, Sherlock would watch resentfully as his brother slowly built his armour of indifference.  And he would try his utmost to pierce through that defensive wall. 

 

He’d finally succeeded the night he was hospitalized for overdosing and awoken to find Mycroft’s anguished face hovering over him.

 

The next morning, as they waited for the car to arrive and the signal that it was safe to leave, Sherlock gave Mycroft a folded piece of paper upon which he’d written the username and password for the Twitter account he’d set up for his brother, along with his own username. 

 

“Only 140 characters, brother dear.  Think you’ll manage to be so succinct?”

 

Mycroft had slightly grinned at his username but now looked up with glistening eyes. 

 

Suddenly, Sherlock found himself enveloped in his brother’s arms.  Stunned at first, he managed to awkwardly pat his brother’s back, but that only caused Mycroft to tighten his hold. 

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t chase the monsters away that night.”

 

Sherlock grunted and wriggled out of the stranglehold.  “There weren’t any monsters.”

 

Mycroft blinked.  “Nevertheless, you’d only wanted to comfort me.  I should not have refused.”

 

“But you proved your point.  ‘Caring is not an advantage.’  You told me that the same Christmas.”

 

The car arrived.  Mycroft glanced at it and then back to his brother.  “Seems we’ve both failed, then.”

 

Sherlock sniffed and picked up his rucksack.  “Try not to start any wars while I’m gone.  You know how much I hate being trapped in airports and train stations.”  He opened the door, not waiting for a reply.

 

That night, when he signed into his Twitter account, Mycroft found a tweet waiting for him:

 

_“I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.” #watch your waistline #too much sugar will rot your teeth_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is from Shakespeare's Two Gentlemen of Verona.


	2. Chapter 2

_~ Your loss would break my heart. ~_

 

Sherlock paced the holding cell. 

 

Mycroft was closeted with Lady Smallwood and her lot.  That he’d not been immediately charged with the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen was promising, though there was no guarantee that Mycroft could negotiate absolution.  The best he could possibly wrangle was the job in Eastern Europe that he’d wanted Sherlock to decline.

 

Indeed, when Sherlock was escorted into the room, he was unsurprised by Lady Smallwood’s edict.  Mycroft avoided eye contact the entire time.

 

An escort followed him to his Baker Street flat and posted by the doors as he packed.  He carefully placed his violin into its case.  He wanted Mycroft to have his most valuable possession. 

 

As the car weaved through traffic, Sherlock felt a moment’s _déjà vu_.  Of course, this time, he was going to the Diogenes and not the safehouse across the street.  And he was being exiled, not going off on a pirating adventure. 

 

The video he saw at Appledore of him pulling John out of the bonfire suddenly flashed in his mind.  He closed his eyes.  At least his exile had worth.  He could die knowing his friends were safe.

 

That night, the video played in a vivid feedback loop in his dreams and merged with his own memory of that incident.  But as he tried to lock it away, the scene morphed, and he watched as Mycroft pulled _him_ out of the bonfire…

 

And then he found his seven-year-old self pounding at Mycroft’s door, wanting to be let in.  _Who hurt you, Mycroft?  Tell me!  Look, I have my sword.  We can chase the monsters away together. Open the door!_

 

In the morning, there was a knock on his door.  A despondent Andrea brought him to Mycroft’s office and led him toward the corner filing cabinet.  She hesitated, squeezed his shoulder, and turned quickly away, closing the office door behind her. 

 

Sherlock faced the cabinet and sighed.  Being The British Government did at least garner some respect for privacy.  He opened and closed the cabinet drawers in the right sequence to activate the unlocking of the hidden door. 

 

He stepped into the small chambers that contained Mycroft’s surveillance equipment and the tiny bed his brother’d slept in more often than the one in his flat.  Mycroft was fussing over his tie.  Their eyes met in the mirror, and Sherlock felt his chest tighten at his brother’s expression. 

 

It was the same look he’d seen when he awoke in hospital after Mary shot him.  It was the same look he’d seen on his own face as he’d pulled John out of the bonfire.

 

Sherlock closed the gap between them and embraced his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.pinterest.com/pin/73394668901341855/


End file.
